pepperella

2:22am: Smeared Red Lipstick File #1: Deciphering Signs
There are about a gazillion trivial things that happen in a day. Things that may seem unimportant can past off as relevant to those people who were looking for signs or clues that would decipher life’s mysteries.

It was raining really hard that bleak November afternoon. You were supposed to come visit me in my new place in Sampaloc but the rain made in impossible to know for certain if you would come. I wouldn’t bet on it. You’ve broken too many promises already. You’ve scratched off too many hopes of getting together. What chance would I stake on seeing you today?

A part of me wished that you wouldn’t come… but more than half of me wishes to see you badly that I searched the sky to look for clues. The rain stopped: my first sign. I smiled.

And so you came when odds tells me that you wouldn’t. You look thinner and darker from the last time I saw you. What have you been doing these days I wonder? You were wearing a black leather jacket over a blue jersey-like t-shirt that has the same hue as the blouse I was wearing that time. It’s amazing how we seem to unconsciously wear the same color of clothes whenever we meet up. Sign number two: Color-coded clothes. I smiled.

Your guitar was slung over one shoulder. I remembered you saying that you were on your way to practice with your band. I remembered you saying you’d play for me. I remembered you promise me a song or two. I hoped you’d fulfill it. I hoped we’d have a nice day today. We made our way up the stairs to the dorm’s rooftop. At this time, the sky is clear with a few smattering of feathery clouds and unhindered rays of the glaring sun. Nice day sign: Glaring sun and clear sky. I smiled.

You sat across me, looking serious. You reached for your guitar and brought out some music sheets. You picked out one song. I was holding my breath in anticipation, wondering what the first song might be. And you strummed a familiar tune… something I’ve heard before but don’t really care about. I sat back and listened to you play.

“This is the last time / that I’m ever gonna be here tonight”

The rooftop is an ideal entertaining place for visitors. I remembered postponing a guy friend’s visit just so you could have the honor of being the first one I’ve brought up to my favorite stargazing spot. You are that special to me. You were here today charming me with your music. Transfixed by your dexterous strumming, I failed to hear the ominous first line of the song…

“this is the last time - I will fall / into a place that fails us all – inside”

… and even the ominous second line. I tried to look into your eyes behind your ever-present aviator glasses. But you weren’t looking at anywhere except at the music sheets. Still, I tried to peer.

“I can see the pain in you/ I can see the love in you”

And then you looked up at me and caught me staring at you. You held my gaze for three seconds before looking back down the music sheets.

“but fighting all the demons will take time/ it will take time”

And I looked up the sky with the smattering of feathery clouds – looking every bit like angels’ wings –

“the angels they burn inside for us/ are we ever/ are we ever gonna learn to fly”

- and I squint at the glare of the sun – fiery like devils’ ire.

“The devils they burn inside of us/ are we ever gonna come back down/ come around/ I’m always gonna worry about the things / that could make us cold.”

And here I caught the lines at last… the song started to emerge like an ominous soundtrack of our relationship (or the lack of it). The sun was definitely hot; I felt a trickle of perspiration went down the side of my face but, oddly, I felt cold inside. Did you picked out this song for a purpose? Were you trying to say something to me?

“This is the last time / that I’m ever gonna give in tonight/ are there angels or devils crawling here?”
“I just want to know what blurs and what is clear/ to see”

We were in a gray area: not really friends but not really lovers. We loved each other but there were some things in our lives that ruled out a relationship for both of us.

“Still I can see the pain in you/ And I can see the love in you”
“and fighting all the demons will take time/ it will take time”
“the angels they burn inside for us/ are we ever/ are we ever gonna learn to fly/
“the devil they burn inside of us/ are we ever gonna come back down – come around/”
“I’m always gonna worry about the things that could break us…”

Every note poured significantly. Lyrics echoed those words you’ve always said before we harbored the gray area. You told me you have issues in your life that you need to fix. You said you wouldn’t want me to get involve. And so I cut back from my demands of your time and gave you the space you needed. You asked if I would accept you despite the fact you are into deep with the band scenario and have tasted stuff that would otherwise balk a two-goody-good-shoes girl like me. Yet I gave you my acceptance readily, despite the fact that my friends thought me mad for my decision. You sought trust and understanding about your colorful past. And I gave it in an instant. In fact, I gave you ten thousand assurances that I love you. Yet you still worry. You hurdled secrets at me you think I wouldn’t be able to accept. You assumed about those things that we would fight for in the future. You supposed I wasn’t ready for a commitment. You believed wrong: I am ready to be committed only if it’s you.

“If I was to give it / give it up/ and then/ take a breath/ make it deep/
cause it might be the last one you get/be the last one/
that could make us cold/ you know that they could make us cold/
“I’m always gonna worry about the things that could make us cold”

But pride is something we have in common. My pride got tired of waiting for the time that you would give me the attention I sought. So I told you I’ll be walking out of it… and you let me go. I wanted you to kiss me and tell me I need not go. But I guess I was asking too much. You have your own pride. It’s what kept you from running after me.

We are in a gray area: not really friends but not really lovers. Considering the fact that I was the one who walked away, it was a wonder that I invited you here. Considering the fact that you have a busy schedule ahead of you, I am amazed that you’re here. Not really friends but not really lovers, we just couldn’t keep away from each other can we?

As you strummed the last note, I realized that impish Fate had her eyes focused on us. I was looking for signs before you came here, and Fate gave us the biggest gist (the fourth sign): this song you're playing. I smiled… bittersweetly.

11:52am: Smells like Channel Surfing, Subscriber Switching, and Boyfriend Swapping...
i know, i know, i've been spamming the whole blog world by signing up to different blogs site. I'd like to say that it's part of my world domination plan since people are into blogs these days and it would be easy to spread my word to those brain-fried individuals who spend most of their time in front of the computer, getting hypnotize by pixelic wonders of high-tech imagery. I'd like to say that every blog that I make contains special hidden characters that you could read in easy "english alphabet" BUT the cognition of every word means only one thing "WORSHIP PEPPERELLA".

I'd like to say that... really. But then, I am worried about not getting my wish list from Santa last year (Santa only gave me toothpicks for my club sandwich, but I never did received the atom bomb cannister I wished for) so I am trying to be a goody-two-shoes for awhile.

Ok...so where was I? Oh, the main channel...(what's my main channel anyweyz?) Ahhh... Blogging.. Right... The reason why I made so many blogs is that I really wanted to know which blogspace is the most flexible host. Blogger.com was my very first weblog. I have that since 2001, i think. But then, I was such a lazy git, my entries count to a total of 2 every 3 months. Sometimes, I have flashes of amnesia, I forgot doing my assignments..let alone blogging. Then I decided not to bother at all. My blogspot looks like crap anyweyz.

Then I was introduced to myspace.com. It functions more like friendster because you it serves as an online-dating-service-within-the-sixth-degree-separation-rule. But the thing is, if friendster became popular because of it's ego-boosting feature called the "testimonials", myspace is gaining raves because of the skins (translation: them horny people). But anyweyz, it was of a later age that I realized the difference... The reason why I signed up there was because of the blog feature (and the fact that you can also deconstruct the template of your myspace page.. I had my page there overhauled, thanks to Maki, my hmtl-css expert/iRC friend who looks a bit like Kramer, my fellow PP and fellow blogwhore of cyberspace.)

Blogging is therapeutic, and catalystic to any emo-crap you are undergoing. And myspace was a haven for me that time because my mom was becoming paranoid from my sudden metamorphosis from Shirley Temple to Emily Strange, that she would snoop into my room and read all my notebooks that I keep as my journals. MY mother was shocked that she had spawned such a villain in her purified womb, that I had a lecture in Sanity 101 and was given a misalette that I should put under my pillow.

I have smarten after that episode: Rule #1: Never leave hard copies of world domination plan. So now, I eat every plottings I did on paper, and write all my campaigns in secrecy... in blog secrecy. I know, there will be a time that my secret plans must be unleashed, but in the meantime, I became creative in making the papers edible. (NOTE: mustard is a good alternative of pepper and salt).

2004 is my year. I know because the planes of my dominating future manifested into the sky on Janury the first in the form of clouds forming something that looks like a cross between Mozzarella wrapped in Peppermint leaves. But on one hand, it also looks like fried tikoy with langka toppings... Hmmm... come to think of it, I wasn't so sure since I wasn't wearing my contact lense that day...

Anyweyz, I signed up at here at blurty... Since I was a CSS and html idiot before, and couldn't care less about those numbers that looks like my that abbreviation in my grocery bills, the inflexibility of this blurty is just fine. Until Maki came along (remember him?). And then I upgraded from idiot to not-so-idiot. That's when I started checking out tabulas, xanga, and livejournal. If I have known any other blogsite then, you can count on me signing up.

And then blogdrive. I'm happy now at blogdrive...

Message from the saner character:

The blurty page is transfered here -> http://acquiredtaste.blogdrive.com

The one that talks in metaphors (the compressed tabulas and myspace blogs) -> http://thispetridishlife.blogdrive.com

5:22am: When Dr. Hyde is actually Mr. Jeckyll
Drats! I am being given a bad rap from that ninny-livered bimbo who is UNFORTUNATELY inhabiting my other half... Pffft. Talk about being inconvenienced by a sissy alter-ego. Hmp.

But then, as the showbiz people said, "Bad publicity is still publicity." So I guess I have to give leeway to this Dr. Hyde of mine. Afterall, she's boosting my kick ass reputation. Being a dominatrix, I need all the "angas-power" that I can get, so I guess experimenting with myself and removing the bad apple in me (aka. sashayingpepper) is not such a bad idea after all.

Here's what she wrote about me:

http://www.tabulas.com/~sashayingpepper/745196.html

Message from the saner character: There are times that people gets confused with my characters. As I am so hard to get to know in person, they just get want they can on what I write. But they do get confused with the voices of my blogs.

"Who or where or which are you, Van?"

Dearies, moods are nanoseconds in flirtatious skirt.

9:00am: poetic license
awryt. I always always say something delusional about me having a fans club or something... truth to tell, i don't even know if someone is REALLY REALLY reading my shits.

of course, as an aspiring writer (although, my gibberish thoughts and tons of grammatical and spelling errors here, wouldn't say "WRITER" in big bold letters), I dream of an audience.

Yes, an audience... a real audience made up of real people... not my army of pillows looking at the glow of the radiation from my pc screen or my set of groupies (i,e, my very very biased friends).

After eight months of no IRC chatting (eversince D happened, chatting has became sooo passe'), I logged in again on ..makata undernet as a support for a fellow PP member and blog lover. And whoa, a guy with the nick of [bleep] greeted me and then asked me to update my blog in blurty :D

*dreamy dorky dancing-on-the-clouds smile*

Awwww...don't pick on my stupid grin I'm wearing at the moment... lemme just bathe on that glow from readership for awhile. As for you [bleep], I will dedicate something for you... *grin*

Message from the saner character: I have a poor aching back. I don't have the stars twinkling for inspiration because it's nine-in-the-freaking-morning-and-i-need-to-sleep-because-my-braincells-are-dying. I know there are loads of grammar errors here, but then, maybe I'm just making an excuse because I do not know how to edit my works. But before you even entertain the thought of me not knowing the grammar book, please refer to my tabulas page (www.tabulas.com/~sashayingpepper)...me thinks I cleaned up my literary faux pas in there.

PS: I'm a lazy, impatient creature. Waiting for this blurty page to load and edit makes my hair go white in annoyance.

PPS: I haven't migrated in tabulas, mind you. I just want to segregate the nougee softee me so the dominatrix chaarcter I had painstakingly built for world domination won't look like a wringing-hanky-mademoiselle who is in danger of constipation for excreting too much tears and snot. Tabulas is a little closer to truth... but then, why believe a word weaver when she speaks of truth? Ok, ok... I'll stop philosophizing ang going around in circles... my brain is close to having a melt down.

Words of advice: the "c" in Vitamin C is not an acronym for "coffee"

5:41am: Smeared Red Lipstick Files: February Special





Due to the insistence of public demand (translation: my biased minions and friends), I am going to post past and present prose and poems about that waterloo-of-all-existence called L.O.V.E.

***
I own a journal... Yes, the tangible one. People who sees it thought it as a "scrapbook" because there's lots of "scraps" (with sentimental values) glued among the pages. If you'll look closely at my myspace account profile page (http://profiles.myspace.com/users/195401), the BACKGROUND is actually a photograph of my journal.

Anyweyz, I was my old journal and found out forgotten storylines I was cooking up before whenever the fancy strikes. I remember that I already formulated those bits o' scripts into a proper story...however, I also remember that some of it was already posted here in myspace - but with no endings. But since I'm in the hearts mood this month, even without a man decorating my side (right, why shouldn't men be objectified for a change?... that will be my retaliation to the norm of seeing females like a necessity to boost one's machismo), I will repost some of my old stuff here. And this time, these stories will be concluded.

6:54am: Camisole Stories: Of Sanitized Id and Barbarian Tongues



Skin is definitely a way to incite reactions...in various levels.

***
Camisole Story Number One
***

Two years ago, me and a college friend planned to pose topless behind a camera. As Interdisiplinary students who were munching literary books for breakfast, drinking art galleries' soul for lunch, and theorizing the delusions founded by bunny-shape-clouds in the sky while eating fishballs at the Sunken Garden, we have grand visions for ourselves:

We wanted our person be viewed as an object and our youth be immortalized in negatives

(Bleeping Id: Great. While some other kids in college dreamed of being in the corporate worlds, slaving for the system and enslaving others for the system, me and my friend were aspiring to be nude models. Right... simple things make us happy.)

With me and my friend posing side by side, we would've provided the perfect contrast: my long wavy hair falling to cover my chest, her straight hair falling to cover her chest; my fair skin, her dark skin; my full lips, her thin lips; and my petite bones, her tallness.

As we already have a photographer (a friend whom we can trust not to pirate the negatives and have it distributed to various uhhmm... markets)...

(Bleeping Id: Our vision is strong but popularity is too much. Hmmm... Maybe we should've commissioned a follower of Picasso instead? )

... we would've that vision materialized long before, had we not been bothered by other worries such as: homework, projects, org meetings, movie reviews, poetry reading nights...

(Bleeping Id: ...and worrying how to take off a couple of pounds from the waist area so that we would look good on photos...)

...etc. etc.

(Bleeping Id: ... and we continue to worry still while conferencing our diet plans among savory porkchop menus at Manangs)

***
Camisole Story Number Two
***



Of course, repression will resurface at some point. Four years later, I am reduced to a bored blogging creature of the Internet who cannibalizes herself in every possible way:

Pet Project #5: How many will see pass the skin? (see the picture above)

My follow-up questions will be: 1) Is this sensual? Or just basically jerk-factor? 2) Does the brain stem for imagination stalks down the south hemisphere of a male’s body? If so, how many times does the penis imagine?

I posted the picture as my primary photo in friendster…I have such a nice set of supportive friends:

“Ay! Ang taray ng lola mo!”
“Wow! Diva na diva!”
“Keri!”
“Astig ang pagka-sepia… anong cam ang gamit mo?”
“Twit-twiw”

But then, those that said that are girls and gays. And oh, there’s also a small deviation though:: “Vaaaaaan! Ano yun? Parang poster ng bold movie!,” said my ala-Maria Clara fellow PRO in our poetry org.

So I posted it in my myspace account. Lo and behold! In the span of 5 days, I am already swamped by friends requests and IMs – average 5 invites and 3 IMs a day (that’s 15 IMs for 5 days – only 3 are uumm… “innocent” in content). Suddenly, I am a celebrity of skin, spiraled to the abyss of attention by males who favored their own isolated body parts as their identification. (Bleeping Id’s translation: yung mga lalakeng penis ang main picture sa profile)

Thinking about the statistics, I think I have reached the “vision” of becoming an “object” (RE Youth) captured in a still shot, separating the person from the body. Unfortunately though, instead of being viewed as an object of art, I am viewed as an object of lust – a situation that my Filipina prudishness is vehemently protesting.

For a long while, I was thinking of ending the project and changing my primary picture into a sepia shot of my shoes… or my raggedy ann dolly. But those are thoughts done with hot blush on my cheeks.

***
Camisole Story Number Three
***
Then HE saw it and commented, “Van…what is up with those almost naked pic…lol?”

This time, I can feel my ears whistling from the boiling steam…the roots of my hair resembles red carpet. You can call me, “beetroot” that very moment. And boy was HE ever so direct!

“Feeling kinky, huh?”

My sensibilities went bristling with indignation… but poise won over so I tried to answer him with my “visions of poetics from college” as best as I can.

“Sure, sure. Admit it. You’re aiming at a sexy playful online flirt pic…lol”

And the beetroot became a fire-breathing dragon. Scowling, I was all ready to bludgeon him to pulp IF he was near vicinity. Thank his lucky star it’s a ym conversation.

(Bleeping Id: Van, please take karate-lesson first before you spout bloody murder. Five feet tall pitted against five feet ten looks real shrimpy

“Why won’t you just admit that you’re aiming for the sexy look? Nothing wrong with that.”

True. There’s nothing wrong with showing off some skin and celebrating my confidence. Nothing wrong with hinting sensuality, winking playfully at everybody, and admitting that “yes, I was aiming for the sexy look”. So why deny it?

Because I thought he thinks I look ridiculous. Suddenly, the project’s statistics became inconclusive. Who cares about those horny dweebs who IMs me anyweyz? They’re just part of the survey. What HE thinks matter to me, but of course, since I have a temperament of a hungry termite trapped in a metal box, and pride akin to a pampered pet poodle, I refuse to let him know that his very direct statements sting. For someone like me who lives and moves in a bourgeoisie’s euphemized world and sanitized id, mincing words are common practice.

Most of the times I thought he thought I am ugly… and too child-like to be considered as sexy. Sometimes I thought that if a man can reduce my self-confidence, then it’s not worth being with him. And at those times, I wish for someone else... but even when I tried (believe me when I told you I tried), the gnat is firmly stuck under my skin.

I was also thinking of taking the photo down, but my petulance got the better of me… and suddenly, for whatever kind of anito possessing me, I was saying things I didn’t plan in the first place: “Next time I’ll be naked! No clothes whatsoever! I’ll ask my gay bestfriend to take shots of me in the nude. How’s that for kinky?”

(Bleeping Id: Oh Van, you sound like a child here…)

But he said something that dropped all my indignation and forgive his oh-so-American tongue. For all his directness, the guy has an issue when it comes to telling what he really feels. And I know when he said those statement (of which will not be revealed in this journal...lest a minion stole the line and sampled the effect of it), I know now that he thought I am beautiful.

Message from the saner character: I guess the rationale of my falling so deeply for the gnat is that he pulls me down to earth when I am flying so high with my dreams.

1:01am: Stepping Out Cindy’s Shoes


My life isn’t any different from yours.

I wake up in the morning, yawn in front of the mirror, do my daily business, go to work, and then wish to dream unperturbed dreams. Well, let’s not drag my tightrope balance for existence when it comes to eating home-cooked meals (RE Burnt breakfast), for I already solved that by eating out.

So, why read me? Not that I’m complaining… it’s nice enough to be able to know people are interested to know how you work. But what of you?

I have been self-absorbed in writing, but then, why shouldn’t I be? After all, this is my domain and you’re just peeping in… and in some point in time, in peeping in my journal, you have been self-absorbed yourself. Why? You’re asking me why? Simple. There is a lot of bone to find amusement in this page, but no bone at all to sympathize. Empathize, sure. But sympathize? No. I do not need it. Nor do you.

But you have stepped into my shoes for a moment there… as I would love to step out mine and try out a size 7 Prada (- a change from the normal size 6 department store step-ins. )

So here it is, my high-heeled whip-ass Xena-the-warrior-princess dominatrix boots. Do me a favor and try it out. Park it with my matching leather lasso to accessorize – that is, if you want to.

Meanwhile, I’m going to soak my poor aching feet and just plot world dominion in my bunny slippers.

Message from the Saner Character: Oh don't blame me if I spouted something out of tangent again... for some odd reason, I can't seem to sound normal at all... but then, maybe the dominatrix image IS my norm... Wow. I guess I overdid acting out the part so much it has cannibalized my life. Kewl.

PS: Hold your noses and try not to hyperventilate. I just realized that there are loads of grammar error here... but then, I'm too lazy to preen this entry out. Bear with it.

8:12am: Looking for Shooting Stars at the Reminiscing Pool of Fools

It has been more than a month since I had a fitful sleep. Mr. Sandman probably got tired of me asking for his dream dusts that he might have decided to go on vacation (translation: hide from my peskiness) while his chum Morphius makes another batch of sleeping potion that he ordered.

(Having a blast in Aruba, Señor Sandman?)

It has been a slow painful event for me since the estrangement of me and HIM. And it's an odd thing, because we still talk to each other, but you can feel the wall - almost vibrating, lest I forgot that we are no longer an "US". And I still do forget that we are no longer and "US": I still call him "hon" by mistake, and sometimes mention things from our "before". He just lets my Freudian slips pass, but as for me? I feel pathetic. It just shows how much I cannot control my emotions... it's just another one of those weakness I let him see.

Now why don't I just walk away? Why not scram out of earth and return only when the cosmic balance of my chi is stable again? It's quite simple really: and I'll put it under one of my incurrable vice - one of the seven deadly sins: PRIDE.

(Not LUST you presumptious nincompoop you! :P)

I have promised him FOREVER... that no matter what, I will never ever leave him (and in thinking morbidly, even in death). I don't know what I see myself as before but I guess I was masquerading as his self-appointed guardian angel while in truth I was just a simple fool unwittingly falling for him.

(Yes, please say it... "how foolish of you")

Binded as I am to a promise to him I could never leave even seeing him no longer needing me. It annoys me before how he always teases me about everything about me (looks, clothes, snobbishness, voices, etc) but it annoys me more how I miss that kind of annoyance. And it annoys me even more that it pains me to see how I don't figure in his life anymore.

"No more." Such as sad little sentence don't you think?

And in lieu of pride, I have to show him that I CAN stick to what I promised him (even if he doesn't care about it anymore). I'll show him I am not affected... even when most of the times, I end up like an awkward-teenager-in-the-midst-of-zit-filled-puberty.

It's the game of power.. and control... of keeping yourself together. It's the show of being an adult and tossing problems unmindfully like its just an ugly hat you could easily replace.

But that's just what it is right? A show... just a show.

12:21am: Mars Vs. Venus (...and other supporting documents why God still needed to make Eve after Adam's crea
Mars Vs. Venus (...and other supporting documents why God still needed to make Eve after Adam's creation)

My orgmate forwarded a humor piece over the PP e-groups by mistake. PP's (Pinoypoets) circulation of mails usually goes around sharing/posting/criticising poems... and this forwarded email is not really for PP type. But then, I'm glad I saw this one... it certainly convinced me of my initial views with regards to existence:

Men are such a simpleton, they bore God five seconds of their existence, that God made another being to livened up things. Yep... We, people of Venus, are perfection that those enlightened male species aspires to be like us... (Translation: do i need to spell it out for you?)

Lemme post here the e-mail's content:

****

At last a guy has taken the time to write this all down Finally, the guys' side of the story. We always hear "the rules" from the female side. Now here are the rules from the male side. These are our rules!

Please note... these are all numbered "1" ON PURPOSE!

1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us
complaining about you leaving it down.

1. Sunday sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.

1. Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.

1. Crying is blackmail.

1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not
work! Just say it!

1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.

1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.

1. A headache that lasts for 17 months is a problem. See a doctor.

1. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 days.

1. If you won't dress like the Victoria's Secret girls, don't expect us to act like soap opera guys.

1. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us.

1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.

1. You can either ask us to do something or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.

1. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials.

1. Christopher Columbus did not need directions and neither do we.

1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color. Pumpkin is also a
fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.

1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.

1. If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing," we will act like nothing's wrong. We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle.

1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine...Really.

1. Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as baseball, the shotgun formation, or monster trucks.

1. You have enough clothes.

1. You have too many shoes.

1. I am in shape. Round is a shape.

1. Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight; but did you know men really don't mind that? It's like camping.

***

Now, this whinings of a man is really amusing. It only indicates there simplistic nature.
And goodness, I just can't resist commenting. See the girl's POV.

Guy
1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.

Girl
"Guys' nostrils must be immune to the stench of "human waste" that it's ok to them that the odor would escape the toilet."

Guy
1. Sunday sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.

Girl
* PMS. No arguements... leave us be.

Guy
1. Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.

Girl
* Shopping IS a sport.
1)Shopping is like city's version of treasure-hunting. ;)
2)You use smarts for haggling or discount computations.
3)You improved your stamina from going to boutique-to-boutique, shop-to-shop, mall-to-mall.
4) Testing one's flexibility: Buying a complete party outfit (clothes, shoes & accessories) for only P500.
5)There is competition: imagine the scenario -> "midnight madness sale"
6)Building power and muscle strength from carrying shopping bags and from long distance walking (connected to .2)
7)Strategy planning: finding shorter routes from various shopping places.
8)Sports promotes camaraderie and teamwork. Shopping promotes sharing and bonding.

...and i could go on and on and on and on... but i think you get the idea... if not, boy oh boy... how thick men can be? *grimace*

Guy
1. Crying is blackmail.

Girl
* Only is when you fall for a faker... And if you fall for a faker's cry, who now is the weaker sex?

Guy
1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it!

Girl
*Wooookei... Men are such simple creatures. Call it charity, but we are actually helping you guys, to help saved those brain cells dying from non-activity. No wonder guys are prone to Alzheimers more than women.

Guy
1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.

Girl
IF they keep that up, sooner, their vocabulary would consist only of *grunts* ... and then, there goes the start of devolving.

Guy
1. If you won't dress like the Victoria's Secret girls, don't expect us to act like soap opera guys.

Girl
Oh but we do when we have the body for it (if not, then dieting calls in handy)... we'd even wear it everyday if possible... who doesn't want to be admired *wink wink* Meanwhile, please refrain from scratching your thingie in public...

Guy
1. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 days.

Girl
Then how come you guys get irritated when we always ask if you love us? You can't blame us from checking if the "i-l-u's" have expiration dates too, you know.

Guy
1. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us.

Girl<
Fine... oh by the way, unless you're planning hair transplant, staring at it mournfully over the mirror won’t help it grow.


Guy
1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.

Girl
"tricky, aren't yah?"

Guy
1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.

Girl
*sigh* Yeye... we forgive your colorblindness.... poor guys... so many birth defects, and they call us, women, the weaker sex... tsk tsk...

Guy
1. You can either ask us to do something or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.

Girl
Afraid to bust a fuse when we require you to use your brain?

Guy
1. You have enough clothes.
1. You have too many shoes.

Girls
1. Clothes and shoes are our Shopping sport trophies. And if you are going to complain about them, I'll ask you to clean the armory (where you keep your collection of guns), launder your jerseys and sweatbands, and yes, I'll give out to charity your golf clubs.

Guy
1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine...Really.

Girl
"wow... a permission to wear my 1900's ballgown... or my birthday suit. thanks"

Guy
1. Christopher Columbus did not need directions and neither do we.

Girl
Uhmm... maybe you should rethink your hero, señor. Christopher columbus just "stumbled" upon America, while he's busy getting lost finding Asia.

Guy
1. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials.

Girl
Even when the house is burning?


And oh, guys, while you are "enjoying the wilderness" by your "little camping" (at your backyard), I did take notice of your numbering ("Please note... these are all numbered "1" ON PURPOSE!" )... and yes, I do know what it means... it means you don't know what comes next the number "1".

***
Message of the Saner Character: Pertaining to the "crying is blackmail" quote.

"My grandmother said, "there are two things why women cry: First, when their life is upset; and second, when they are about to upset yours." -> Viola Bacia Tutti. (More on this movie when I get the time to make a review of it).

12:26pm: Testing what the bandwagon is tasting
I don't need to put smileys to spoonfeed people on how i really feel. But I just wanted to see what those levitating hamster looks like (this blogspace doesnt offer previews... pffft)

11:57am: The Sash Bf Screening Committee (Part 1)
She arrived, late as usual. Fashionably late, fashionably attired: black top, fire-red skirt, strappy heels, untameable hair, and an apologetic smile that tries to win the hearts that almost got staled from waiting for her.

Of course, her friends already expected lateness in her part. It is, afterall, one of those things you can bet about her... any other else, you won't win with her constant inconsistencies.

She sat beside her gay bestfriend, who also stands as her "pseudo-boyfriend", and nuzzled her head at the crook of her bestfriend's neck. Her bestfriend, in turn, captured her left hand and played with her long fingernails. People are always curious, "What is up with the two of you?"

And answers always came from her. Not him. And she always answer with this statement:

"He's my knight-in-shining-armour" - A universal answer that provides consistency but has double-edged meaning.

To any Jack, Richard, Daniel, Brad who eyes her like a possible side-dish Jezebel to play with (while their promised main course Claras await their phone calls) - the meaning means "Go Away"

To any friends that asks, it is explained further with, "He provides me protection from persistent pests."

But does she really means both? Perhaps she does. But I'm guessing that there is a Mrs. Dalloway in her:

"She likes to throw away parties to cover the silence."

And indeed there is silence, overwhelming her to smile a half-smile, mistaken as a mysterious, flirtatious come-on, but really, the other half of her smile is buried and borrowed by her lonely heart.


***

To be continued..

1:40pm: She Runs in Pauses
"Merry Christmas to you"

I heard the wind whispered that to you. It was melodious, like silver tinklings of chimes moving along my panting breath... my panting breath, silver tinklings, melodious... I think it was me who teased your ears with greetings.

It was the same as everyday. I, moving and moving and moving, dynamically strapped in a pair of rollerblades that has no toepicks for breaks. Who wants breaks when you are given the gift to flirt with life? Only, I think something is wrong, for when I look down to see the tracks I'm burning, I couldn't see lines - straight or crooked, squiggly or curvy... no, no lines at all. I see one big circle, with path falling deeper and deeper until, maybe one day, I am buried - stunted by moving. Funny, how these tiny observation occurs when you least expect it. Even funnier that the graveness actually put a smile on my lips, when it should worry me.

But then, why should it worry me? I'm still moving anyway..right? Yet my skin covered in goosebumps could feel the gravity of this non-linear movement.

the all-shining future.
You...
the butterfly wings of hopeful wishes.
Me...
cotton candy dreams conspiring with happiness.
You and Me.

...stunted by moving... Isn't that such a funny phrase?

[pause]

Maybe in a matter of quasi-seconds, reasons would sink in and spread throughout my body.

In the meantime, my dearest, let me play with my chimes and whisper more in your ears. Who knows when my chimes will break? Who knows when my rollerblades become rusted? Or worse, who knows how many more inches will I dug by my burning tracks until I can no longer see you - my daylights?

Pray, that before that happens, if you still want to hear the chimes, pray that I find my non-existent toepicks first before we get to know the answers to all these questions.

Squeezed eyes shut, closing out crystalled sadness, I am afraid but will wait. Until I hear you say "Stay", let me brush my lips near your ears again and hear me say,

"Merry Christmas to you".

9:18am: Parodized Salt

Hmmm... I'm not really sure what I would put in here. It's been a long time since I've last visited this page, much less, update this. Just for the sake of updating this, I'll just write whatever will come into my brain. Yup, another one of those "blank pages exercise" that works so well on some people, but apparently, on moi? everything will just sound like I'm a ranting lunatic. Oh, I forgot, I'm a ranting lunatic.

Let's see... we need a topic here... hmmm... Oh I know! The weather! Yeah, that's one topic that you should go for when you are in dire need of one. Of course, using that topic is soooo lacking of imagination that it's plain obvious that it just there for the purpose of filling in some gaps. Hell, just like what I'm doing right now. I'm filling this space with whatever shit I can come up with just so I have an "updated blog".

Reminds me of those time that I have Einsteinian earth-shattering questions (that would rival the mindnumbing puzzle of "Why does the chicken cross the street?") and I don't have a pen and paper to write it all down. Tsk tsk... There goes my Nobel prize down the drain.

But then, who needs Nobel prize when I, in my unadorn-of-any-laurels being, have big enough reputation to last me a lifetime. Ain't that the life?

Rep #1: hoity-toity
Plea: Guilty. C'mon, I'm a dominatrix. How can you be a dominatrix when you're pathetically nice?

Rep #2: snob
Plea: Guilty. I aspire for world domination. And my aspiration is endangered just by the mere fact that I live in the Philippines, the Home of Incurrable Nosy People and the Land of the most Advance GossipVines ever manifested on Earth (by "advance" I meant, one with the fastest transmition). No offense meant, but then, you have to admit that in PI, strangers will not hesitate to make conversation with you. When some commontion is happening, people make "usi"*. And admit it, a single woman dating herself (i,e. enjoying her coffee in a cafe all by herself, and she's not waiting for anybody else) is weird on some people's notion. (Ok... let's not go here... I'd best keep my vehemence here and stick to my reps... boy oh boy, I have more to add about the "Usi-ness" of Pinoys)... anyweyz, before I go and get diverted into another topic, HEre's my main gist: I can't make Usi-people found out about my plans and aspirations. You know Fate... Once she gets a wift of what someone is about, she'll do her best to play her tricks into it.

Rep#3: Rich
Plea: Not guilty. I'm dirt poor. I just have ukay-clothes that looks like "THE BOMB". And oh, some people mistook me as conyo because I like to use the English language a lot. Conyo is sometimes connected to being rich. Heck. I'm not trying to pass off as rich... I'm trying to pass off as someone who is reaping the good education my parents have given me.

Rep#4: Fashionista
Plea: Fashionista is just a coined term for "someone who dares to wear weird clothes"

Rep#5: Nerd
Plea: Guilty and I'm proud of it. My first day of dominating the world, I'd make dimwits READ. Yeah, it's so cruel of me to hand out punishments on my first day of rule... but... no buts.

Rep#6 Loony
Plea Heller? Need I explain this?

Whew. I ran out of topic.... So... How's the weather in your place?

Message from the Saner Character: Saner me? Sane people are people who are actually insane. Insane people who admits they're insane are actually sane. Kaya ako? Ewan ko *wink wink*

*Usi* -> Short for Usisero/Usisera which means "nosy".

4:23am: Yuff... im going post rubbish that is good for me... ;)

Your love is... by ChibiMarronchan
Your name is...
Your kiss is...	mysterious
Your hugs are...	friendly
Your eyes...	twinkle in the moonlight
Your touch is...	the only thing I desire
Your smell is...	amazing
Your smile is...	hypnotising
Your love is...	eternal
Quiz created with MemeGen!

2:19pm: The Bus Ride to Scientific Illumination, Oversized Ego, and Moneymaking Scheme

“Every man of arts, science, and philosophy has a childish heart
that looks at the world as if they’ve only seen it for the first
time. Sure, everyone does wonder the whys, wherefores and the
endless possibilities of existence, but to never cease wondering
and to have fun discovering so, will separate the bore from the
child at heart.”

***
Problem Solving 101: What it is like to feel filthy both physically and physiologically simultaneously?

And your answer is…? Well, THAT would work BUT I was about to suggest something pretty effortless compared to catching pigs in a rodeo contest while smoking three packs of Marlboro Reds at the same time. That would be very tasking to do and I couldn’t do it. I was never sporty anyway (my coordination consists mainly of thumbing pages of a book while eating chichiria*) and my asthma prohibits me from infiltrating nicotine in my windpipe. But I did end the “question” in an easy manner. All I did was ride an ordinary bus from Shaw Boulevard to Fairview during rush hour and the result was pretty much the same. And voila! Instant asphyxiation and sooty appearance!

Well, I must admit that my discovery of so simple a task to end my curiosity about the matter was quite straightforward… and purely by chance. It was a shame that my motive for doing so was so unlike Galileo when he tested the wind’s participation regarding the pull of gravity atop the Tower of Pisa (intentional) but more like Archimedes shouting “Eureka” for finding the formula for the density of water while taking a bath (accidental). My purpose was by no means scientific since my depleting pocket was caught whispering at my common sense to appeal at my practical side. If one was left with a measly twenty pesos* on one’s pocket, one had no choice but to scrimped.

But in the name of scientific deduction and discovery, all was not in vain. It’s quite remarkable that scrimping could make me experience a chance to experiment with my lung’s tolerance level for air toxicity and to time my antibodies’ allergic reactions for foreign microscopic particles before it could reduced me into a pathetic wheezy bronchial weakling. My miserly nature also introduced time efficiency: what’s an hour and 30 minutes of bus ride compared to a whole day of cleaning the chimney or a coal mine shaft? To paraphrase the familiar Surf Laundry Soap’s tagline “Sing linis pero hindi sing mahal”, my method is “Sing dumi pero hindi sing tagal!”

Now that I have my “Einstein-ian” brain, which could deduce a scientific possibility by means of foresight (if Einstein formulated the Theory of Relativity by daydreaming, I could formulate the Non-Correlativity of Smiling and Thinking while vegging in front of the boobtube), in working order, I have figured out that if I continue penny pinching by riding ordinary bus up until Christmas (10 months to go) I could develop some form of a lung ailment that is much more virulent than my asthma. If I’m lucky I could even develop a mutated form of lung cancer! How about that huh? Not only do I get to save money but also the call of fame, fortune and excitement is on hand. Oh don’t look at me as if I’m crazy you myopic simpleton! Your hindsight is a liability to the call of scientific emergence.

Consider this: An extremely life-and-death dramatic scramble for survival of a mega-biochemical-and-metaphysically-challenged-highly-evolved-malignant-tracheal-tumor patient with Einstein-ian brain, while waiting for a team of hopefully-not-inept lung cancer specialists to find a cure for the deadly disease. Thrilling huh? I can already hear the sweet sound of the mad rush of network executives to bid for the rights and make it a Reality TV Show that could make Survivors a run for their money. Fame, fortune, and adventure. Those, for a simple bus ride.

Oh so you thought you are being smart by throwing me the disabilities of my bus ride method by mentioning the sooty and smells-like-tinapa state of your filthy self. Now that my unique specimen of a medulla oblongata is raring to solve more problems, that odor dilemma is just a piece of cake.

So you are asking what the heck am I trying to say? I suppose your elementary fuse box can’t figure it out. What I’m trying to say is that the smell of our very own tinapa has a major possibility of becoming a bottled scent. Preposterous you say? Well, why shouldn’t it be made as a business prospect? It all has the 3 major factor of a perfume bestseller: a) it’s a food aroma; b.)pungent smell that promises not to wear off easily; and c) it has a original cutting edge quality that could make you stand out.

I know, I know. You need me to elaborate right? Well, on first account, perfumery had a genius idea of imitating aroma coming from food such as herbs, fruits, cotton candy, bubblegum, and even wine. Tinapa is a fish, therefore food. Two, it is a major factor for perfume costumer that they purchase scents that wouldn’t evaporate in a jiffy. You can depend on the tinapa’s aroma to be long lasting. And of course, until today, tinapa’s smell has never been considered as a possible perfume candidate. The mere thought struck you as ridiculous doesn’t it? Well, let me tell you something: the sheer absurdity of the idea is exactly its sales pitch. Take for example the Funeral Scent from the perfume line of Demeter. Who would have thought that somebody would make a perfume that smells like formaldehyde? Who would have thought it would market well with the Goth fashionistas? If Funeral Scent took off, then, with the right market, Tinapa Scent would also take off! Hmmm… wouldn’t you think it would sell like hotcakes to those people who favors “I-felt-like-I’ve-been-to-hell-from-commuting-all-day” or “I-am-a-hardworking-fish-vendor” look? And to make this foolproof, let’s make it very expensive. Bragging rights of being able to afford something very costly would heighten the appeal of the Tinapa Scent.

But hey, this is the Philippines - the land of the fashionista wannabes and expert bootleg artists. If the Tinapa Scent become the latest rage of acquiring panache, and you cannot afford even a drop of the scent, you could always ride an ordinary bus from Shaw Boulevard to Fairview during rush hour.

****
Message from the Saner Character : Watch out from the sarcasm dool dripping all over the floor.

6:58am: Cheapskate is my Middle Name
I haven't done lists for quite a long time now so I'm posting my all time favorites.

Coffehouse/ Resto-cafe

1. Serg's Cafe @ Ortigas near Shangrila and Megamall -- great ambience (they play Bob Marley here a lot), internet rentals, and cheap coffee that tastes so much like rich sweet cocoa. (P30 - brewed coffee)

2. Likha-Diwa sa Gulod @ UP Diliman Campus -- ethnic/eclectic ambience, ethnic/eclectic music playing for the background, student-artist's work in display, organic-healthy food, yummy cold frothy mocha coffee, cheap Kapeng Barako, and Saturday Nights gig! (there's even an occasional tarot reading and palm reading ;)

Street food

1. Isaw manok
2. Kwek kwek
3. Fishball
4. Kikiam
5. Chicken gizzard

(I could never get tired eating those stuff)

Where I shop

1. Ukay-ukay --> basically means "thrift shop/ surplus shop/ or simple Garage Sale"
2. Any botique that has " Large Discount" displayed on the shop's window.
3. Tiangge/Bazarre

I go to the mall because:

1. To watch the movies with my friends (I prefer watching art films though... not much of the hollywood, but I do watch 'em)
2. To exercise my legs without ever sweating.
3. To hunt for cheap books at any BookSale outlet found in any malls.
4. To exercise my consumerism ability.
5. To look for new designs of clothes that'll help me conjure a new outfit for myself.
6. ... and this will go on, basically blabbing about those things a person do inside the mall... except for one thing though: I seldom buy clothes inside the mall...lol

Past time
1. look up at the stars
2. Plot world domination
3. surrender to my LSS (Last Song Syndrome)
4. Plot World Domination
5. try to finish reading all of those books I hoarded (20 books left... ooops! make that 30! I bought 10 more just yesterday... now if only i have time for this... I loathe reading without digesting whatever I read.... I should stop buying em heavy readings and opt for those light reads... like Chick lit or those gooey romance stuff)
6. Plot World Domination
7. Talk to myself
8. Plot World Domination
9. Spent time in allpoetry.com
10. Plot World Domination
11. Update my myspace journal and blurty blogger
12... Yeah, you should've guessed it by now... PLOT WORLD DOMINATION!

*** to be continued***

11:46am: Change is a miracle in a vending machine

There is one thing constant in this world and that is change.

It is quite unpardonable to not move especially when the world is continually spinning despite the major grivances (e.g. nuclear bomb testings, racial descrimination, terrorist attacks, civil wars, and F4 fans vs. 5566 fans clashes) happening everyday.

The only way is forward... and if you do not move, might as well rot and die. But human beings does not move forward just because the Divine machinations are ordering them to do so. No... Man is a faulty creature. However much the faculty of mathemathics and science can calculate the unending possibilities of the future, the thing is, WE DO NOT KNOW FOR SURE. And the fact that we have a hazy view of the "things-yet-to-happen", some of us are afraid to move.

A stigma of failures and disappointments are the vitriolic devices that rots a person's feet at a standstill and make him whine senseless about how traumatic life can be... make him curl to fetal position, tears mixing with his snot running down his knees... makes him hate the Unseen Hand that pulls strings in our future... and makes him reach for the gun to blow his brains off.

Now there is a particular antidote to this poisonous device... and that is to DREAM. Yes... its quite simple really... when you focuses more on the positive things in life and make yourself believe you could reach it... even in delusions. Reaching for dreams makes you move forward... reaching for it makes you anticipate (not fear) for the future...

Ok... now let's go get an example.

Let's try to debunct the "looming" problem of my life. Brace yourself folks... a heavy introduction is usually the gateway for an equally heavy problem:

BURNT BREAKFAST

Yes... it seems that while we still have our housekeeper, I will constantly be plied by charred meals for ever and ever, amen. Carcinogenic food for eternity... woohoo...

Now, I will dream to banish that goddawful burnt breakfast... I hate that to be the constant thing in my world.

Been wishing that for ages... and lo and behold! The next morning? No more burnt food!!!! And guess what? We do not even have to change housekeeper for that!


Shucks... Dreams do come true *blissful smile*

****

Message from the saner character: I had chicken adobo this morning... *satisfied grin*

5:51am: Burnt Eggs, anyone?

Great. Burnt eggs for breakfast. What a lovely way to start a new day... Eat burnt eggs, and oh! What is this? Is this rice? Thought so. Although, for a second there I thought our housekeeper resorted into paste-making. Now for some juice to complete the whole breakfast-trio... huwaaaaattt??? no OJ? how about pineapple then? nada? grapes? Pomelo? Ponkan? Mango? Zut, zilch, zero? Only carrot juice? Jeez... I'm done with this health-buff thingy. Gimme back my coffee!!!


***
Message from the Saner Character: Thank goodness for McDonald's... that comforting thought stopped me from morphing into the Queen of Hearts and shouting, "Off with their heads!"

4:46am: And the plotting begins...

While superheroes needed sidekick/s to save the world, future Overlords - such as I - needed an Igor to do my bidding.

Hitler charmed Mussollini to wage war on smaller countries... Julius Caesar has Brutus by his side... Sinister X has the Marauders do his dirty linens... HIM got Fuzzylumpkins and the Gangrene Gang to moonlight for his diabolical plans... and even Doctor Evil has his Minnie Me.

Now, who will I employ under my liege?

The task of finding someone worthy for the open position as my Commander-in-Chief is definitely ardous. I posted an ad on the newspaper, and the responses are overwhelming. In just a day, the mailman arrived in a dumptruck and unload all the letters in my front porch... Cool... Only the Protect-The-Trees activists are now hounding my place, pestering me to recycle all these letters to toilet paper as relief goods to those UN Charities.

Anyweyz, the massive bulk of replies means two things: 1) There are lots of people who recognizes me as a potential success in power-mongering... and 2) there are lots of bums in the world who are willing to apply for ANY jobs just so they could get a deeper meaning of their boring existence and get out of ANGST de ENNUI.

After screening those first three who applied for the position: a ballerina with a penchant for unicorns and pink tutus with a snooty kid scientist named Dexter for a brother (her only passport for consideration...she's waaaaay too flighty for my taste); a sexy, brainy Townsville mayor's secretary with red curls and no face; and a perpetual happy lil demon who loves to bounce (not walk) using his butt (found among the company of Cow and Chicken or Weasel and Babboon), I was submerged in a spiralling doom of depression, reduced me to twiddling my thumb in mental stupor, and made me forgot the luscious blueberry pie leftover from the fridge.

Surely, these people doesn't think all of this talk about world domination is kid stuff??? What would that ballerina do in the face of a battle? Dance them to death??? And Miss Vellum... weird people off from her lack of facial features? And how about that Red bouncing guy? Will he challenge them to butt-bouncing contest??? Jeez...

World Domination is not kiddie stuff... I want BLOOD! I want GORE! I want BLOODY GORIFICIOUSLY .... BLOOD! This is SERIOUS BUSINESS! And I want someone who looks like he can be BLOODY-HELLBOUND!

I am close to having a fit of epileptic seizures from depression, until I came upon the brilliant poem entitled "Chicken Farm" by someone named "darth"... I figured that anyone who can unwittingly massacre 200 chickens has enough bloodthirst passion in his veins to fit my criteria... Here's his bio:

****
Name: Darth

Bio:

People ask me why my screen name is darth. Ok, so mine is like a nickname. My real name is kinda stupid... Anakin... geeze... who names a kid Anakin? I looked for a good alternate, but the picken's were pretty bad. At the time, I was a member of this gang called the Jedi... a real bunch of creeps. They suggested names like "Dumpy" or "Puddles" or "Fat Bald One", but I wanted something cooler...

So anyway, this Jedi bunch had a whole lotta rules you hadda follow and its run by these really nerdy aliens. I only joined 'cause this old guy... and get this name "Qui-Gon Jinn", like kidnaps me from a great job I had on Tatooine and sells me on this Jedi crap. So he gets killed and this guy "Dopey One" or somethin like that, is supposed to teach me the ropes, but he is so friggin' slow and boring about it that I just wanna bolt... but nooooo, you can't just leave the Jedi. So's I challenge him to a duel... bad move... he beats the living crap out of me and slices off one of my hands... MY FAVORITE HAND if you know what I mean.

So I am pissed... really pissed and join this other gang called the Sith who hate the friggin Jedi's as much as I do and they make me a Dark Lord... cool. They were the one's who named me "Darth", but I dropped the capital and became darth.

After that, I was a virgin for several years then took on the guise of a British games keeper... this fooled many, but when my ploy was discovered I quickly changed into a salpoint proactive seal condition. This was not satisfying. Three feet from center, I found that the earth, although appearing to rotate the sun, was actually circling in for the kill. This disturbed many, but I gained solace in the fact that even if proton decay is real, it is circumvented by the fact that few, if any, will live long enough for it to occur. Why the DNA helix alone confused several before officially being declared obtuse.

My kid has been giving me real problems... years ago I let my brother raise him and he turned out rotten. He got involved with this bozo "princess" and she convinced him to join a bunch of terrorists who have been harassing us to no end. We were convinced her government was hiding weapons of mass destruction so I felt it was necessary to free their people by blowing up their planet. So the kid blames ME! Like I started the war.

Anyway, the crazy religion my kid follows, forces him and a bunch of others to do this suicide attack against my Death Star... you should have seen it... it was sooo cool... the size of a moon... it was brand new... still had that new leviathan smell.

Well his chances were little and none of doing anything substantial, so I got a couple of my buddies and we flew out to stop him. We got most of his buddies, but MY son... had to be mine... gets a one in a million shot and takes out my Death Star... a 50,000,000,000,000 dollar piece of equipment! And he gets away before I can ground him. So the Emperor is pissed with me and takes the cost of it out of my salary... damn kids.

Now here's the ridiculous part... We start to rebuild the Death Star... this time we just want to use it as a tourist attraction around this cool jungle planet we found, and maybe blow up a few rebel fleets, but nothing much... Well, before we get it half done, my rotten kid comes back and does it again... AND he kills me and the emperor for good measure. If that isn't an argument for birth control, I don't know what is.

So lately me, that instructor guy I killed a while back named Dopey One... and Yodel his old boss, a little fuzzy green creep, play three-handed pinochle for eternity... bummer. I can't be reincarnated until I can get life insurance... and with my record, that's going to take a long time.

****

Isn't he just perfect???

****

Bidding, Recruiting and Persuasion STARTS RIGHT NOW:

ME: One click at your Chicken Farm poem... that is my undoing...
it made me want some more... and by checking your introduction, oh ho hoooo boy... you just unwittingly gifted me with the Doomsday power of THE Methane Gas... perfect for my quest of world domination... *maniacal laugh*

so darth, since you owe mondo big time mollah to your emperor.. care for doing a sideline planning a third Deathstar under my liege? *evil grin*

DARTH: Whoa, don't even talk about the third Death Star, that turned out to be a real bummer. We ran out of money after the first two and had to make the third out of cream cheese. Couldn't afford armor plating so we just rolled it in nuts. Didn't really scare anyone, but it sure gave them gas... maybe that's where all that methane came from

ME: cream cheese and nuts? hmmm.... economical... you sure don't want the position sir? i'll pay you in advance with a hundred more chickens so you could start up that farm you screw up... and oh, a new cooler screen name so your pesky kid can't find you...

DARTH I think I have exhausted my luck with chickens. The kid is definitely out of the will. Turns out, he had the hots for his sister. Ewwwwwwwwwwwwww. I didn't raise him that way for sure.

ME: u sure didn't raised him that way... because you didn't raised any.. much less kids... hmmm... in fact, come to think of it, what with failure in chickens, cream cheese, death star, and ur kids... you are ONE RISKY FUTURE EMPLOYEE...maybe i should settle for one of em Death Eaters in Harry Potter...*ponderous... hmmmmmm*

DARTH: I have a very bad track record.

ME: yes... tsk tsk... u gotta clean up my man.. or else incur the wrath of the IRS... hmmm...maybe ur son is a secret agent there doncha think?

END OF BIDDING, RECRUITMENT, PERSUASION

****

And the bloke didn't get to answer anymore... maybe his kid got hold of his hideout and swipe him off from the face of the earth... Oh I forgot... he's already wiped out the face of the earth, playing pinocle with his enemies. Ahhhh... this is making my head pound...

Mussollini is a nincompoop (almost lost his massive troops in a tiny African country, if Hitler didn't give him a hand)... Brutus betrayed his friend and master... Stan Lee always makes the X-Men beat the butts of Sinister's Marauders... Fuzzy and the Gangrene Gang have fickle loyalty with HIM... and Minnie Me went pals with Austin.

Tsk... tsk...Who needs Commander-in-Chiefs anyweyz? I am starting to think that I don't... But this just reminded me to start stacking on Alka-Seltzers...

***
Message from the Saner Character: That conversation up there was a real IM conversation. Darth is real... check him out at http://www.allpoetry.com/poets/darth ...

http://allpoetry.com/Poem/715602 --> Check out his Chicken Farm too :D

8:43pm: Doomed? NOT!!!
Everyone has their own Achilles heel... even future Dominatrix of the universe - such as I - has weaknesses that I am wary to show to people lest some party-pooper smash my nefarious plans for the world.

But yes, there is also a thing called "the glitch of the universe" where people got sucked in a parallel dimension, getting completely nauseous (and an "all-system-barriers-broken-down" message flashing on the forehead) from the vacuum-ride, and then all the hidden "kryptonites" come a-spilling.

That "glitch" has a name of course... and it's spelled as L O V E.

Yes. Like any other human beings, I - the future Overlord - is prone for the glitch. I used to think that I can never ever succumb to such things but well...

I have found a worthy match... *nodded seriously*

He, the object of my twisted desire, is an annoying-insufferable-intensely-irritating-gnat-under-my-skin. He's waaaaayyyy taller than I am (which makes me worry so much because I probably look like a munchkin next to him... that's not good when you are an aspiring dominatrix), and has this real bad ass image, when actually, he's a real chickadee underneath. He's a nice guy, really... except when he's trying to make me late (or call in sick) for work (and he does that a loooooooot of times).... or when he's always messing around my guillible self (yeye, I'm soft-headed at times... more kryptonites for you to prey on huh?)... or when he'd worry me to death when he's attempting to remake his own version of Kenny (Southpark).

A devil. An angel. My bedeviled angel. He's all this and that... HE NEVER BORES ME!

And my penchant to get interested to anybody who does not fall for me in an instant is another factor for my undoing... he probably think I am this crazy kiddo with a mouthful of highfalutin words spouting forth from time to time (he probably still thinks so until now... )

He never set out to trap me nor tame me... but oddly enough, I am tamed by him.
He never forced his decisions on me... but I find myself asking what he thinks.
He, more than once, pushed me away because he thinks he isn't worthy... but will not be pushed...

And no matter how many times he does that just because he doesnt want me to get carried along with him in the downward currents he himself made, I WILL NOT BE PUSHED!

I will carry him up, no matter how heavy he and his baggage is or else, let me be swallowed by the tides alongside him.

The only way for him to get rid of me IS and WHEN the time comes that he no longer cares for me. But until he said those words with all honesty... and I really do believe in his words... I will never back down...

Afterall, a dominatrix ALWAYS fight for her dreams...

So citizens of the world... practice adulation... the world is DOOMED for my onslaught! *maniacal laugh*

4:34pm: Just Blab
Ok. Here goes… no more editing. In the name of grammatical errors, gibberish thoughts, and all else that fails any Obsessive-Compulsive English Language Snobs (O-CEL) to be impressed with my writing prowess, I will write – unhindered, unbound, and uhmm…uhmmm… ok, I’ll not reach for my thesaurus this time…

So where was I? Oh… here goes:

For the sake of putting something on my pathetically un-updated blog, I WILL WRITE ANYTHING THAT POPS INTO MY BRAIN!!!

So there you go… the game is anything goes. Kinda like those contests I always encounter on allpoetry.com (AP) where they would ask you to just write the first thing that you could think of and then just let your mental juices flow. My friend in AP (her name is Duana) calls this activity as the “blank page exercise” … of which I had interpreted as staring blankly at my pc screen, and hopefully tire my eyes enough to be pronounced as “exercised”.

And now I am just writing freely… never daring to even pause lest you’ll call me out as a “cheater” and declare that I am still plotting to make this thing passable for the revered “nods” of those Insufferably Opinionated Grammar Bores (OIGB- other name of O-CEL) who get the “itch” whenever they’re encountering wrong spellings and grammatical errors in anything they read or hear. (Note: When my plan for world domination takes action, I will recruit those OIGBs in my legion of doom. You’ll fear and hate their presence more than you’ll ever fear and hate those Death Eaters. Speak faultless grammar OR ELSE you’ll get corrected SENSELESS)

So write, I will… I will write… And you will read… read, will you?

Keep me company while I blab. Let’s see if I could come up with any meatier topic than just talking about the subject of nothing. Hmmm… hmmm… hmmm… ok, a question: If “nothing” is talked about, will it become something?

See here: A nobody is being talked about… if a “nobody” is a “nobody” then that “nobody” wouldn’t have anything interesting in his “nobody-ness” to be talked about right? But such things occur… when a nobody is being talked about… and if that is so, then he would turned out to be a somebody because “somebody” are always being talked about. (huh?)

Now, I am talking “nothing”… it would turn into “something” since it was talked about…

So if you‘re still reading this, you’d probably find yourself scratching in the head, all ready to strangle me in irritation, and then screeching at me, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT???”

Beats me. All I know is that the hypothesis is correct: If “nothing” is talked about, it certainly will turn into something… and this, my dear readers, has turned into something –

*CRAP*

Character mode: gibberish mackaw

******
Message from the saner character: California-based Filipino-American poet/artist/writer Jessica Hagedor, once said in an interview, “The only way to get around writing is to write”.

12:30pm: The Dance of the Coffeebeans
Sppa-sppaaaasssstic!
Hands not yet rheumy
are doing the jiggy
Wiggly, trembly
bewitched by
the aromatic spell
of roasted beans.

Jolt me!
Kiss me again
with your bittersweetness!
I want to experience the trampoline
of your zesty brew.

Nerrrrrrrrvy...
Nose not clogged
are doing the twitching
Sniffing, inhaling
possessed by
the bursting spirit
of the dancing coffeebeans.

Taste! I want a taste!
Kindle me again
and let me end this gloomy
self-exile from your caffeinated world.

Character mode: Coffee Rehab Inmate

***
Message from the saner character: It's been a week since my last taste of coffee. I am a fortress so far from this cold-turkey treatment (from coffee) I imposed upon my person... but heck! I bet one sniff of coffee aroma will be my undoing... that I guarantee you...

6:20am: Gateway to the Saner Character
I am many things
I am nothing
Give me meaning to my senseless gibber
Give me absurdity to puzzling cipher

I am at the north and east
I am at the west and south
Spreading my wings, escaping aboard my thoughts
Scribbling my pen, remisnicing the battles I fought

F l y
with me,my lovely

Let you not be sadden by my waters
Let you not be burned by my embers
For I am the daughter of the wind
And I can ChAnGeD faster than
you can say
"hello" to your shadows...

But for all my flighty
And for the sunshine that hides me
Lies a steady soul
all ready to c rrrr u mm ble beneath
the touch of your lips.

--- Song of Aeolus' Daughter, by Pepperella

Character Mode: Bard-ish

Message from the Saner Character: This blog is screwing up the format of my poem... please visit my treasure trove so you could see what this poem is suppose to look like. --> http://www.allpoetry.com/poets/pepperella

6:37am: The Meg Ryan Syndrome
Warning: The following text contains vivid self-adulation. Hold on to Mr. Trashcan if you do not want your puke to spill all over the floor.

***

Big round eyes, little nose, pouty lips and chubby cheeks, in a 5" ft high body. That's me. And I've been damned to eternal "cuteness".

Before you froth at the mouth because of my temerity for my self-proclamation of being cute, I'll have you know what I mean by being so.

1. Cute = Kiddo

"What a cute girl, " An elderly man once said to me, "I think I'll pair you off with my grandson." Smiling at being called cute, I ask him back, "How old is your grandson, lolo?"

"Oh, he's turning 16 this year"
"Uh, manong... He's way to young for me."
"How old are you iha?"
"I'm twenty, sir."
"Oh, really? I thought you were just 14"

*Ouch*

2. Cute = Puppy dog

Guy staring at me: You are so cute, Pep
Me: (Tickled pink by being called as "cute")
Guy: You look so huggable... so squeezable... so soft and cuddly... parang tuta (like a puppy)
Me: (Stood up and left)

*Great. I came across a male-El Myra (from Warner Bros. Tiny Toons) in flesh. And while puppies are certainly cute... I do not think it's flattering to be compared to a dog's offspring.*

3. Cute = Kiddo = Not taken seriously

(to be continued...)

4:55pm: Delusional Peppercorn-Hybrid Project
Welcome to my world. You are now entering the thoughts of an eternal loonybin with approximately 365 shades of other demented characters taking over my puny 5 feet-flat frame of a body.

Poor me? Poor you! Try listening to me whine, puff my chest, and poke you with my ten-ft-pole pride while plotting my impending world domination, will undoubtly, make you scamper after your barf bag and reduce you into a ninny-livered puke-fester.

Only those who have guts as flexible as those of Mr. Fantastic (of Marvel Comics Fantastic Four) and those with fervor for masochistic endeavors, can survive this blog.

Character Mode: The MegalomaniaKUNO

****
Message from the saner character: On one hand, this will probably be flushed down the swirling vacuum of nothingness, alongside with those other blogs who died a premature death of being "KSP". But I don't care. Audience or no audience, I'll blog away to unleash my festering soul. After all, this "therapy" is certainly cheaper than shrink fees.